


Make This Last

by Laylah



Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Foreplay, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-14
Updated: 2009-11-14
Packaged: 2017-10-02 18:27:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the night when the Order celebrates the induction of its new members, Basch lowers his tankard after a toast, and across the room, Vossler York Azelas is watching him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Make This Last

It seems inevitable, almost from the start. On the night when the Order celebrates the induction of its new members, Basch lowers his tankard after a toast -- to the captain who put them through their endless drills and tests, until they were worthy -- and across the room, Vossler York Azelas is watching him. The expression is too intense to be a mere coincidence, nearly a challenge, and a heat unrelated to the Dalmascan climate flushes Basch's skin. Sir Azelas was his sparring partner for nearly half their drills -- he's near Basch's own age, third son of a Dalmascan noble house, quick and fierce in battle with a single-mindedness that reminds Basch of his brother.

He raises his tankard to Basch, as if a private toast between them. Basch licks his lips as he returns the salute, and the hunger on Sir Azelas's face is unmistakable.

*

They are assigned to the same patrol a week later, securing the southern territory in preparation for Giza's rains. There are two bridges that will need reinforcement, if they are to withstand the deluge, and the hyena packs are restless, possibly with more than the turning season. Sir Azelas, now that he has won his rank, prefers a greatsword etched with his family crest to the standard-issue mythril blade that Basch carries. He is fearsome with it, his strikes powerful and sweeping, grounded in his wide stance and driven with all the strength in his broad shoulders. It's a pleasure to fight beside him, and more a pleasure to watch him move, the light glinting on his blade, on the plates of his mail.

Sometimes, Basch suspects he is being watched as well. He will finish a kill, sheathe his blade, and if he turns quickly enough he can catch Sir Azelas's eyes, the heat and admiration. Yet though they spend three days afield together, no more is shared between them than camaraderie and this hungry tension.

*

Basch is training, the next time he sees Sir Azelas; he is grateful for the opportunity that the Order gave him, as barely more than a refugee, and will do all in his power to repay them.

"Would you spar with me?" Sir Azelas asks, as he steps onto the arena practice ground.

"And face that monstrosity on your back?" Basch asks, and smiles. "I'd be honored."

They shift and strike, feint and parry, driving each other across the grounds. The power of the greatsword is offset by the speed of Basch's blade, at least for now; neither of them can land more than a glancing blow to the other's mailcoat. The balance will tip eventually, when one of them grows tired enough to err; tired, or distracted.

A clash, as their blades meet, slide against each other, tension aching in Basch's shoulders as he holds Sir Azelas at bay. They are pressed so close, and Sir Azelas is so handsome, strong-jawed and clear-eyed.

"You want more than a sparring match, Sir Azelas," Basch says. "What stays you?"

"I would wait," Sir Azelas says, his voice nearly level though his arms tremble with the effort of pressing his advance, "until I know your intentions, and until you call me by name."

Anticipation thrills along Basch's spine. "And if I asked you to kiss me, Vossler, what then?"

He yields, falls back under Sir Az -- under _Vossler's_ renewed assault, finds himself pinned against the arena wall, the flat of the greatsword pressed hard against his chest. "You do not jest," Vossler says.

"I do not," Basch agrees.

Vossler lunges, as though this is another form of attack, and crushes their lips together over the weight of the blade. Basch tastes the salt of sweat on his upper lip. Metal groans in protest between them. He feels short of breath.

The arena's far door clangs open, and Vossler pulls back instantly, coming to ready as though they are approached by a foe. "Again," he says.

Basch raises his blade.

*

The next day is blazing hot, even for Dalmasca, and the Nebra is swollen with the rainy season further north. In practical terms, what that means is that Basch is exhausted all through the day, dizzy on occasion from the heat -- but that he also appreciates it perhaps the most of anyone in the company when a detachment of the knights make their way down to river's edge in the evening to bathe.

In Dalmasca, Basch discovers, it is customary to swim naked; even the few women of the company do not hesitate. It seems strange to him, but the shining, rippling water promises to soothe his overheated skin, and he cannot bring himself to worry for long.

There is a game that a few of the recruits have brought with them from their hometown, and which they endeavor to teach the rest -- the subtleties are lost in the chaos of splashing and laughter and good-natured attempts to shove each other under the water, but in its simplest sense the point is to get control of a large ball that floats on the water's surface, and to throw it into an area the opposing team guards. Basch finds himself facing off against Vossler, and well-matched -- Vossler has more muscle on his frame, but Basch is the better swimmer. They collide, grapple, Vossler's hands seeking purchase against his wet skin, and Basch is distracted, breathless, just long enough for Vossler to seize the initiative and the ball.

After the game ends, the company haul themselves up out of the river to dry off. The sun is going down, but the wide, flat rocks on the bank are still warm, and the dry air leaches water from their skin quickly.

"Well fought," Basch says, when they begin to dress; Vossler's team ended the match ahead by six points. "I think honor compels me to buy you the first drink tonight at the Sandsea."

Vossler smiles. "In that case," he says, "I suppose honor demands that I accept."

And that might be enough, might give Basch the opportunity he craves, except that one of the other recruits says, "It's the Sandsea after this, is it?" loudly enough for most of the others to hear. They can hardly refuse the company, but Basch thinks, perhaps, he sees his own frustration reflected on Vossler's face for a moment as well.

*

Preparations are underway in the palace for the departure of the princess's retinue. In the year of her birth, the wars abroad -- in Landis, Basch knows, and swallows again the ache of loss when he remembers it -- made travel unsafe, so it is now, in her fifth year, that Princess Ashelia will make her first pilgrimage to holy Bur-Omisace, for an audience with, and the blessing of, the Gran Kiltias. A company of senior knights will accompany her, keeping her ship safe from pirates on the sea and her entourage safe from monsters on the slopes of the mountain itself. Many of the younger knights speak of the journey with a wistful sort of envy, until Basch begins to wonder if any of them have ever left Dalmasca's borders. He feels old, by comparison, and weary.

"Where is Vossler?" he asks at dinner, when his friend's seat remains vacant even as the others crowd the table with their food and drink and boasting.

"Did you not hear?" asks Corrain, across the table. "Sir Lamkin has fallen ill, and taken to his bed. The captain asked Vossler to take his place."

Basch feels the bottom drop out of his stomach, and curses himself for worrying even as he cannot seem to dismiss the fear entirely. "Vossler leaves with the princess's escort, then."

"First thing in the morning," Corrain agrees, shaking her head. Her smile is bright against her Dalmascan tan. "A shame for it to happen like this, but what good luck for him, isn't it?"

"It is," Basch makes himself say, and smiles. This is a routine trip, he reminds himself, not a wartime mission. There is good reason to believe that every man who leaves will return.

Still, when he has finished his meal and excused himself, Basch finds that his footsteps take him not to his own quarters, but to Vossler's. He hesitates but a moment before he knocks at the door, and stands listening for the clink of mail on the other side as Vossler moves.

The door unlatches with a click, and then Vossler is staring at him, blinking in surprise. "Basch," he says.

"You missed dinner," Basch says. He nods toward the dim light in Vossler's room. "Too busy preparing to leave?"

"Almost finished now," Vossler says. He holds up his bare hands, smudged dark with leather polish. "Official inspection is nothing next to the worry of knowing you'll be compared with Dalmasca's finest."

"I'm sure you'll acquit yourself well," Basch says, and crosses the threshold when Vossler steps back to let him in. The knights' quarters are small rooms -- though he's been told the captains' are larger -- but they are private, unlike the barracks of the infantry, a luxury Basch had never had before his promotion. He is still unsure if he likes it, the isolation of sharing his room with no-one, living with no other man's presence and possessions, hearing no other man's breathing as he settles in to sleep -- but he is grateful enough for it tonight, for the fact that he can close the door behind him and be alone with Vossler, at last.

"You look troubled," Vossler says. "You cannot be jealous, Basch."

"No," Basch says. His mouth feels dry. Vossler's skin looks warm in the lamplight, and the cleanly-trimmed line of his beard shows off the handsome strength of his jaw. "It is not that. Rather --" and he is the one who steps forward this time, who claims the kiss, catching Vossler's sword-belt in his hands to hold him still. Vossler kisses back fiercely, hungrily, so that it is a long moment before Basch can free himself enough to say, against Vossler's mouth, "If you are to leave, I would not miss this chance."

Vossler laughs shortly, his hand raking through Basch's hair and holding on. "I would not turn you away, certainly," he says, "but you make it sound as though I will be gone for years. This trip should last barely a month, and that if the wind does not favor us."

Basch falters. "I have -- I have seen friends off before," he says, "and had them not return at all."

It almost feels too much to say, wrong for the occasion, but Vossler does not scoff. Instead he holds Basch's gaze steadily, and says, "I will return, Basch. I give you my word."

At once this is not only inevitable, it is overwhelming; Basch's breath catches in his throat, and he nods. "Thank you." Too well he knows that circumstances can conspire to overpower even the most solemn oath, but he will not believe that is the fate in store for them. He parts his lips for Vossler's kiss, and this time neither of them treat it as a battle. Rather, Vossler steps closer, nearly unbalancing them for a moment as they shift against each other, as the plates of their mail overlap and catch. Vossler's hand tightens in his hair and pulls, and Basch feels the moan rising in his throat before he gives it voice.

"Gods," Vossler whispers. "Gods, Basch." He pulls back, looks Basch in the eyes, his own dark with hunger. "Can you stay long?"

Basch nods. "I have no other duties tonight."

"Good," Vossler says. "I would do this right." His hands drop to Basch's sword-belt, and go to work with the confidence that comes of knowing intimately how the uniform fastens. "It'll be a month before we have a second chance, after all."

"More than that," Basch says. His hands feel clumsy, unbuckling Vossler's belt, pulling it free. "You're going to be the most popular man in the company when you get back. Everyone will want to hear stories of your travels."

Vossler steps back, and pulls his mail shirt off over his head. "All the more reason to enjoy this, then."

Basch follows his lead, stripping off mail and gauntlets, unlacing the leathers he wears underneath. He lets himself look, now, as he would not the other day on the riverbank -- lets himself admire the balanced strength in Vossler's limbs, the shadows that define muscle, the dusting of dark hair that draws attention to the contours of his chest.

"You flatter me," Vossler says, when he sees Basch watching.

"No more than you deserve," Basch says. He unbuckles his greaves, sees Vossler bending to do the same, reaches for the laces of his shorts. It is ridiculous to feel self-conscious, when they've seen each other naked before -- wrestled in the river under the late-afternoon sun, both of them stripped bare -- and yet this is completely different from that, for all that it is a consequence of it.

When Vossler lets his shorts fall, and kicks them aside, his cock is already thick between his legs, swelling. Basch's mouth waters. He wants to take it in his mouth, tease it fully hard with lips and tongue until he can barely fit the thick hard length of it down his throat. He wants the sharp salt taste of it, the rich musky scent. He steps closer, slides an arm around Vossler's waist, reaches down with his other hand to palm the smooth shaft.

"I want to taste you," he says, and feels the way Vossler's cock jumps in his hand, the way his own stirs in response. "I want to suck your cock."

Vossler shudders, pushing into Basch's hand, but what he says is, "Not yet."

"Not yet?" Basch asks.

"You said you had time," Vossler says. He takes a step backward, toward his narrow bed, pulling Basch with him. "So I plan to take it."

Basch smiles, lets himself be pulled down onto the bed. "And what will you do with me, then?"

Vossler pushes him onto his back, rolls half on top of him, their legs tangling together. "I'll need to make this last," he says. "So I would have as much of you as I can." He lowers his head, his mouth hot, his beard rough against Basch's throat. Basch wraps his arms around Vossler's broad back, and arches up into the kisses, the heat, grinding his cock against Vossler's thigh. By habit he's quiet, his moans more breath than voice; even here, in a private room, they must remember that someone in the hall outside could hear them. So he shows his appreciation by gesture, rather than sound, rocking his hips, running his hands over the sleek expanse of Vossler's skin. He cards a hand through Vossler's hair and drags him up for another kiss -- Vossler's lips are flushed red and swollen, and from the tenderness of his neck Basch suspects he'll have a livid souvenir to take back to his own room after they're done.

"More," Vossler breathes, between kisses, pulling against Basch's hold on his hair.

"More?" Basch asks. He tightens his grip, and pulls harder. "More of this?"

Vossler groans, shudders, attacks his mouth with the ferocity of his kisses -- teeth pulling at Basch's lower lip, tongue pressing into Basch's mouth. They are still sparring, it seems.

Basch braces his heels against the mattress and bucks as though he would push Vossler off, but he doesn't let go. Vossler accepts the challenge readily, fighting to keep Basch pinned, growling low in his throat. With the hand not wound into Vossler's hair, Basch reaches for Vossler's shoulder, to push him back. Vossler grabs his wrist and slams it down against the bed, holding tight, and Basch does moan aloud at last, twisting his hips, finding Vossler's cock as hard as his own.

"Don't stop," Vossler says, when Basch pauses to take a breath, and he sounds so needy, so _pleading_, it makes Basch's cock ache. "Gods, Basch, don't stop."

Basch drags Vossler's head back and lunges, bites down on the base of Vossler's throat where his collar might hide the mark, if he's lucky. His skin tastes of sweat and leather, raw, masculine, and he struggles, though it's plain by his refusal to let go that he has no real wish to escape.

The blanket shifts under them as they fight for the upper hand, then slides -- and then they're tumbling, letting go of each other and scrambling to catch themselves as the bed proves too narrow for the contest, and they fall. Half tangled in the blanket, half tangled with Vossler's legs, Basch breaks into laughter. A moment to catch his breath, and then Vossler is laughing, too, mirth lightening his features, and so handsome that for a moment Basch is dumbstruck with it.

Only for a moment, though, before he rallies. "I have you now," he says, and lunges before Vossler can recover an adequate defense. He catches Vossler around the waist, and leans down, and then Vossler's laughter turns abruptly to a moan as Basch's mouth closes around his cock.

It is as good as he had hoped; it is better than that. Vossler's cock is thick and hard on his tongue, cut -- still strange, that, though Basch has known other men who were -- with a well-defined head that feels good pressing past his lips. The scent of leather is plain here, too, clinging to the stiff curls at Vossler's groin, mingling with the warm, dark scent of his cock. His balls hang heavy and full, and he shudders when Basch cups them in the palm of one hand to stroke.

"Yes," he says. "Basch." His hands rake through Basch's hair, and his thighs flex a little, like he's trying not to thrust but wants to. Basch moans around the shaft of his cock. "Gods, you're good at that," Vossler says.

Basch moans again in answer, and strokes Vossler's thigh. It's his pleasure, he wants to say. It grows easier as he moves, spit slicking the shaft, the rhythm becoming familiar again. He has not done this for some time, but it seems the skill has not deserted him.

And then Vossler stretches, pulls away from him as if reaching for something -- "Here," he says roughly, offering Basch a small jar, parting his thighs. "Prepare me."

Basch sits back on his heels. "That's what you want?" he says. His voice sounds hoarse, his throat battered.

Vossler shrugs, one corner of his mouth lifting in a smile. "If you're up for it," he says, which makes the offer sound casual when Basch suspects that in fact it isn't.

"I had planned to offer you the same," he says, and hesitates in opening the jar.

"I'll take you up on that when I come home," Vossler says. "You'll give me reason to hurry back."

Basch laughs. "Done," he says. "Shall we try the bed again? I think it might be easier on my knees."

"Or your back," Vossler answers, with such heat in his smile that Basch shivers, and he scrambles up from the floor without care for his dignity. Vossler follows him up onto the bed, arranging himself there on elbows and knees, his legs spread and his cock heavy between them. "Go on."

"Yes, sir," Basch says, smiling, and unscrews that lid on the jar. The stuff inside is thick, oily, with only the faintest scent. Basch wonders as he coats his fingers what its real purpose is, and realizes it's possible this _is_ the stuff's only use. It doesn't matter now, not really. He presses his fingers into the cleft of Vossler's ass, takes a slow breath to steady himself and hears Vossler do the same. He pushes.

Vossler opens for him, rocking back onto his fingers, so tight this can't be a habit, can't be easy. He moans for it, though, drops his head and makes needy, low sounds every time Basch presses deep, and his thighs tremble. He moves like he knows what he wants, knows the sensation he's looking for -- Basch angles his fingers down, seeking resistance -- there, and the shudder ripples up Vossler's spine, his back arching. Basch strokes him there again, and a third time, feeling the way he flexes and pushes back.

"When you're ready," Basch says.

"Now," Vossler says, twisting, reaching back to grab Basch by the arm and pull him down. Basch's fingers slide free -- too roughly, he fears, though Vossler does not complain -- and he narrowly avoids another tumble off the bed before Vossler gets him on his back, and throws a leg over him.

"Vossler," he says. "Gods."

There's something like triumph in Vossler's expression as he steadies Basch's cock and pushes himself down -- and if he wants to take his victories like this, Basch will gladly let him, moaning in surrender, in pleasure, as Vossler's tight heat surrounds him. He looks so handsome, so proud, the definition of his chest and stomach, the flex of his thighs, his cock flushed dark and stiff. "You feel good," he says, leaning back, impaling himself slowly.

"Yes," Basch says, "yes, gods. Vossler. So good." He slides his hands up Vossler's thighs, would reach for Vossler's cock, save that Vossler grabs his wrist again -- the same wrist, and he'll have bruises tomorrow, but he doesn't care.

"Wait," Vossler says.

Basch cannot help laughing. "Your patience borders on the inhuman," he says.

Vossler shakes his head. "I know the limits to my stamina," he says. "And I want to enjoy this," he rocks down hard, and pleasure makes his face go slack for a moment, "before you finish me utterly."

"Keep moving like that," Basch says, thrusting up to meet him as Vossler rocks down, "and it won't be _your_ stamina you have to worry about."

"For shame," Vossler says, smiling. "You're not the one who's been having your cock sucked already this evening. I think you might need more conditioning."

Basch tries to keep his thrusts steady, tries not to let the soft, yielding heat undo him. "I wouldn't have thought you were -- ah -- aiming to be a drill sergeant," he says. "Though I'm -- gods -- flattered by your concern."

"Not sure I'd want to see something this good ruined with drills," Vossler says. His breath is coming shorter, his movements sharper and less fluid, and a minute later he lets go of Basch's wrists. "I've changed my mind," he says. "No more waiting."

He's almost tempted to refuse, Basch thinks, but he's not yet sure that he knows Vossler well enough to push that far -- and then he thinks of how it will look, how it will feel, when Vossler comes, and he has no stomach for waiting, either. He curls his hand around Vossler's cock, and Vossler thrusts into his grip without hesitation, moaning harshly. The friction as he moves on Basch's cock is almost unbearable.

"Please," Basch says, strung taut beneath him, trembling with the effort of waiting, "I can't -- tell me you're close."

"Yes," Vossler says, nodding, "yes, gods, ah --" and climax rocks him forward, makes him shudder and moan as he spills across Basch's stomach, as he clenches rhythmically around Basch's cock. Basch grabs him by the hips and pulls him down again, driving in hard. There's no reason to hold back now, no reason to try to resist the heat and friction that seek to overwhelm him, the weight of Vossler's body above his, the scent of sweat and come -- he closes his eyes and feels the last of his control evaporate, feels the gathered tension burst as his release pulses through him and he rocks up one final time to bury his cock deep.

It is a long moment before he can open his eyes, and his heart still has not slowed completely when he does so. Vossler is smiling, one sweat-damp curl of hair fallen loose over his forehead. "An excellent parting gift," he says, and shifts his weight, rising up off Basch's cock before collapsing with a surprising lack of dignity on the rest of the mattress.

Basch is fairly certain he should get up, should leave Vossler in peace to make his last preparations and get some sleep before the journey, but it's tempting to stay here. He feels wrung out, exhausted more thoroughly and more pleasantly than sparring leaves him. When he rolls onto his side and drapes an arm across Vossler's chest, Vossler doesn't remind him of the hour or their obligations, only sighs contentedly.

After a few minutes -- when Basch is beginning to think Vossler has dozed off, and wonders if he could get away with doing the same -- Vossler rolls over, and leans in to kiss him. He's slow, almost gentle at first, though the kiss deepens as it goes on, satiation turning to rekindled desire.

"On further consideration," Vossler says, sliding his arms around Basch, "I don't care for the idea of waiting an entire month to reciprocate."

You have duties to attend to, Basch does not say. "I would hate to see you off in the morning unsatisfied," he says instead, and Vossler returns his smile.


End file.
